


and he stands vigil, he waits

by willkommen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Lestrade is a good friend, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock is a sad gay baby, post tsot, there's nothing happy about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4346462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willkommen/pseuds/willkommen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Sherlock share a quiet drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and he stands vigil, he waits

**Author's Note:**

> this short, sad piece almost definitely fits into show canon and i hope it captures sherlock's pain and loss. it's a subject that draws me endlessly. it is largely to the tune, in my head anyway, of hallelujah by leonard cohen. however, I also really like the rufus wainwright version if you fancy a listen.
> 
> this one hurt me more than it made me feel good, but i'm a masochist that way.

              Three days after the wedding, Greg Lestrade goes to 221B. It’s late, but Sherlock hasn’t returned calls or texts all day. Lestrade expects the worst. He hammers on the door and Mrs. Hudson lets him in, tells him with a face of resigned worry that Sherlock won’t come out. Lestrade storms upstairs with purpose renewed.

              There’s no cocaine in sight when Lestrade nearly busts the door down. There’s Sherlock, slumped in the armchair John preferred, drinking scotch. Alone.

              “Been calling you all bloody day. What you think you’re doing? You don’t even like to drink,” he grumbles, picking up Sherlock’s mobile from the coffee table, and sees all of his own missed calls.

              “Busy,” Sherlock replies, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle. It’s half empty.

              “Bullshit.”

              Lestrade decides that Sherlock needs minding, considering the circumstances. He reaches for the bottle, but Sherlock’s hand stops him.

              “Oi, you could at least share,” Lestrade snaps. Sherlock seems to consider this, then he moves his hand. Lestrade goes to the kitchen, eventually finds his own glass, and comes back. He pours himself a scotch (expensive label) and sips at it while he studies Sherlock for a hard minute.

              “What?” Sherlock says tersely. Like Lestrade doesn’t see the dark circles and the puffy eyes and the utter disarray of the flat. Lestrade clicks his tongue and sighs.

              “He’s not dead, you know,” he says, because what else could it be about? “You’re still best mates. You’ve got cases and everything.”

              “Hooray,” Sherlock quips. Lestrade chooses his next words carefully, because he’s verging into territory he never deigned to speak to Sherlock about.

              “It’s not that bad. Not like you can’t go see him.”

              “Not the same,” Sherlock replies, looking away. And, oh, there it is. Lestrade always wondered about those two. It seemed inevitable, but John was so vehement and Sherlock…well. The man was impenetrable. Everyone had wondered and been afraid to ask.

              “You and him, did you ever…?” he asks, because he can’t help it. Sherlock laughs that mirthless sort of laugh that is the opposite of what a laugh is meant to be.

              “No,” Sherlock answers. Then, in a moment of candor, he continues. “He’d never have me.”

              So that’s how it is. It makes sense, really. John avoiding it like the plague and Sherlock, the clueless git, not seeing it coming. It must be lonely. Lestrade’s expression softens. Sherlock takes another drink. Lestrade thinks back, takes everything into perspective with this new knowledge. Poor bastard.

              “’M sorry, mate. It’s rotten luck,” Lestrade says. For awhile, they sit in silence. Sherlock stares at nothing and Lestrade stares at Sherlock and they seem to be at a loss. Then, Sherlock looks up.

              “He used to have nightmares,” Sherlock says. Lestrade holds his breath, not wanting to spoil this rare moment of openness. “Jerking, shouting. Awful. Sometimes, he’d wake up and come downstairs. Played for him, sometimes. Think it soothed him. Then, other times, he wouldn’t wake. I’d go upstairs and shake him. He snapped awake and grabbed my wrist so tight, felt the bones rubbing together. I held his shoulders and told him where he was. That happened several times. We never talked about it.”

              Lestrade’s brain falters for a moment for something to say. All that comes out is “Um.”

              “Do you think Mary helps him with his nightmares?”

              “I dunno,” Lestrade says honestly. “But listen, you’re important to him. Hell, you were the best man at his wedding.” That doesn’t seem to be the right thing to say, because Sherlock’s hand shakes as he sets the glass down.

              “Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Best man.” Lestrade is reminded, for some reason, of that best man’s speech. Rather more revealing, now that he knows better.

              “It’s not the end of the world,” he offers up lamely. Sherlock twists his head away, hiding his face, which he’s dabbing at quickly. Christ, Lestrade’s never seen the man cry.

              “John will be a great father,” Sherlock says once he’s composed himself. Lestrade nods. He will be. And Mary seems like a good woman. That must sting, that she’s not horrible.

              Nothing else is said for a long while after that, and Lestrade assumes that Sherlock has closed back up again. When the bottle is mostly drained, Lestrade stands with a sigh.

              “No reason to drink yourself to death, anyway. You’ll have a hangover tomorrow,” he points out. Then, he winces, and tries again. “We’ve all dealt with, ah, losing someone. Drinking isn’t the answer.”

              “John never belonged to me,” comes Sherlock’s quiet answer.

              Lestrade sends Sherlock off to bed, and then sits on the couch. He begins a quiet vigil for the short remainder of his evening. He is the watcher, because Sherlock needs it. It’s the least he can do. John will be back from his honeymoon soon enough, and the DI has no earthly idea how he can look the man in the face. And it isn’t even his burden.

              Four days after the wedding, Greg Lestrade leaves 221B with a heavy heart. He’s promised up and down that he’ll never tell another soul, that he’ll carry Sherlock’s secret of you-know-what (Sherlock never said it out loud) to his grave. He thinks, as he squints into the bleak morning light, that it will be a rather long journey.


End file.
